


Lord of Unbroken Things

by literaryspell



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Bondage, Forced Submission, Humiliation, M/M, Master/Slave, Punishment, Whipping, major consent issues
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-08-28
Updated: 2011-08-28
Packaged: 2017-10-23 04:44:12
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 13,208
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/246388
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/literaryspell/pseuds/literaryspell
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Draco Malfoy is a Victorian lord who trains slaves, servants, and recalcitrant youths as a hobby. Harry Potter is put in his charge—young, strong, and almost unbreakable. But it doesn’t take long for Draco to realise that broken toys are no fun to play with.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Lord of Unbroken Things

**Author's Note:**

> Betas: Thank you so much to seatbeltdrivein and Krystle Lynne for the beta and to and ratherbsailing for the first read. You're all so amazing!  
> Author’s Notes: Despite the warnings, this isn't an unhappy story. Self-actualization takes time and sometimes grave errors are made along the way, as Draco learns. I'd also like to mention that while this story does take place in Victorian England, the language is fairly modern (though I did my best). Lastly, Draco and Harry are, as in canon, the same age. Draco refers to him as 'the youth' and 'the boy' because of their differing social statuses and as a humiliation technique (he also thinks he's better than Harry). Originally written for the hd_parallel fest on LJ. I hope you enjoy the story!

  


  
Draco sighed as he glanced down at his appointment book again. Alas, his next scheduled meeting had not disappeared in the time between glances.

He usually didn’t mind being put upon in such a manner—or rather, he minded very much but was too civilised to mention it—but the fact that the family needed to meet after five in the evening meant that the head of the family was working, and the very idea left a bad taste in Draco's mouth.

It wasn’t that he was against working, of course—he certainly wouldn’t have had any servants if it weren’t for those unfortunate proletarians. He simply didn’t like being reminded of the necessity of it. His own so-called employment was more of a hobby. He bred and showed horses, even racing them on occasion for additional entertainment. The money was a fringe benefit but not the main appeal. He had enough money to do nothing but tour for the rest of his life, and at times, he had half a mind to do just that. However, he had responsibilities, and he wouldn’t neglect them despite the fact that his father was no longer alive to berate him nor his mother to guilt him.

He hoped this… Dursley—such a common name!—had enough foresight to bathe before coming to the appointment. The stench of the working class was impossible to rid from his imported damask lounge coverings. Such was the risk one took when one entertained clients in one's home, he supposed.

It had been quite some time since Draco had taken on a new challenge. His last had been a disaster—the first one of its sort—and Draco had vowed to collect himself, regain his bearings before trying again. Even a single failure was one too many, and though things had worked out in the end, he couldn’t chance having the same thing happen twice. His reputation had been immaculate and now, because of one silly little chit, he was back to consorting with the working class. Draco shuddered.

A knock on his study door interrupted his unpleasant reverie. "Yes?"

Stevens, Draco's butler, opened the door and entered, bowing at the waist. "Mr. Dursley has arrived with his wife and children."

"Very good. Show them into the meeting room."

After Stevens left and Draco heard the rather rowdy family being showed into the room in which he met with all his clients, Draco ran his hands through his hair. He'd be lying to himself if he claimed he wasn’t nervous. It was imperative that, if he chose to take on their son, everything go perfectly. One more mistake would bring his little business crashing to the ground.

Adjusting the sleeves of his shot silk morning coat, Draco made his way to the meeting room. As he was wont, he listened, unabashed, as the family settled.

"Cor, it's _gorgeous,_ " came a nasally voice, feminine, though that might have been a stretch as far as adjectives went.

"A little stuffy, isn't it?" A man's voice, revealing an affected haughtiness meant to hide his own shortcomings.

"Look at all the food!" This last voice, younger than the rest, must have been his potential charge. The tea service had been set with a veritable cornucopia of food. Draco swore he could hear the sound of smacking lips. A glutton, then. He would put paid to that vice, make no mistake.

He opened the door, satisfied to see all faces turn toward him. The boy, the one he'd be meant to look after, was, indeed, making an attempt at shoving a type of food from each plate into his mouth at once. Draco couldn’t help the moue of disgust on his face, but he tamped it down and faced the swarthy and impressively girthed Mr. Dursley.

"How do you do," Draco said, extending his hand without removing his glove. Dursley didn’t even notice the slight.

"Fine, fine, Mr. Malfoy. So good of you to see us." Dursley's jowls danced in time with his words.

"Please, have a seat." Draco seated himself in the armchair by the fire. Their son deigned not to sit, pouring himself tea and drinking it without even offering his mother a cup.

Draco watched with a twitching upper lip as the younger man drank from his teacup with two hands. His lips were very wet when he set the tea aside.

"Forgive my haste," Draco said smoothly once it seemed that they were waiting for him to begin. "But it's important that we begin right away, to set the stage for the new circumstances."

"Of course," Mr. Dursley said, nodding. His small eyes were perfectly round, but they narrowed with his next words. "The boy's a right hassle, he is. Never seen anything like it. Incorrigible. Uncontrollable. Can't even let him out of the house, let alone his room."

"I see," Draco said. One look at the youth made Dursley's words evident. Draco almost wanted to shy away from the amount of work in front of him, but he refused to back down from a challenge. "And what would you say his main… flaws are?"

Dursley's list was both comprehensive and practised. "He doesn’t listen. He doesn’t do what he's told. He won't mind his own business. He makes foolish mistakes in everyday chores. He's _insolent._ His mind… it isn't right. He's a… he's… there's something _wrong_ with him. You'll see."

Draco thought he could see well enough at the moment. "And what is the business he'll be taking over?"

Dursley's eyes were wide again. "He'll not be taking over _my_ business!" he cried, seeming distraught.

"I'll need to focus his training on something, you understand."

"Just… housework and the like. Obedience, mostly. He won't be working, that one. He's only with us because my poor, tender-hearted wife—" He gave a soft look to the woman who looked anything but how he'd described her, and she simpered in return. "—couldn't bear not to heed the dying wish of her dear sister."

Draco wasn’t sure of how that dynamic worked, but he didn’t need to know in order to do his job. In any event, if the boy was as they described, he would be only too happy to mourn his ill fortune and Draco would learn the details from him soon enough.

"Right, then," he said, all business. He'd simply train the charge as he would a young woman—to obey, to listen, to appreciate, to please. A shiver ran through him—not in _that_ way. Which was unfortunate, as he'd been rather hoping for a strapping young man to unleash his recent frustrations on. He certainly wouldn’t be touching _that_ for love or money. "Come here, boy," he snapped, and the young man turned with wide eyes, fondant on his slick slips.

"See here!" Dursley cried, his florid face reddening further still.

Draco wanted to sigh. So many parents brought in their children without realising how intensive his programme really was. He hadn’t thought Dursley would be one of those, but he'd been surprised before.

"Is there a problem?" he asked mildly.

"I expect there is!" he sputtered. "I don't care how you talk to Potter, but you'll not speak to my boy that way!"

What would a potter have to do with this? "How would you like me to speak with him, then?"

"With the same proper respect you'd afford me!"

Wanting to laugh at that—if it hadn’t been for the opportunity to get his business back on the ground, he wouldn’t afford Dursley any respect at all—Draco just nodded. "I won't be able to train him to your liking if you don't allow me to… bring him down to a more basic level," he explained.

Mrs. Dursley gasped and brought a bony hand to her sad décolletage. Mr. Dursley's eyes widened, then squinted, then sort of ticked between the two. "The boy we want you to fix is _outside,_ Mr. Malfoy," he spat with the vigour of the dispossessed.

Draco's eyebrows lifted. There was _another,_ even _worse_ example of humanity than the one before him?

"My mistake," Draco said, a gracious smile working to placate the blustering Mr. Dursley. "Would you be so kind as to bring him in?"

Dursley looked around as if he wasn’t sure the other boy should even be permitted inside.

"Would you be more comfortable if I met him outside?" Draco offered, inwardly rolling his eyes.

Dursley nodded, looking relieved at the suggestion.

"Wait here, please." Draco rose. "And help yourself to the refreshments," he added, a slight dig at the family who'd already dug in to his offering. Not that he expected them to notice the jibe.

Outside, he had to look for the boy. Finally, he saw a huddled form in the Dursleys' out of fashion and abused-looking carriage, sorely inadequate next to Draco's own phaeton.

"Boy," he said in a commanding tone. "Come out at once!" To Draco's surprise, the young man did, slipping from the carriage with grace unbecoming the family he belonged to. To his surprise, he saw the young man was close to his own age—and that wasn’t the last of his shocks.

The boy was utterly _beautiful._

Draco lifted his lip in a sneer, even though it trembled, and a hidden part of himself wanted to ravish the creature without even letting him part his lips to speak. Messy black hair was cut unfashionably short across a scarred forehead. Draco approached the young man and tipped his head up, his fingers on the smooth jaw. He inspected the scar; it could be covered easily enough once the hair grew out a little. It wasn’t entirely unattractive to Draco, but if the Dursleys ever wanted this boy married, they'd have to be more conscious of his faults.

"They call you insolent," Draco said, tracing his thumb over full red lips.

Potter, as he was called, opened his lips as if to speak, but with a slight grin, he snapped his teeth at Draco's thumb, clamping down. Draco shrieked in outrage before slapping Potter reflexively, and the grip loosed.

"You stupid—" Draco broke off, determined to keep himself together. Though Potter's face was red and there was a trickle of blood at the corner of his mouth—luckily resulting from the slap and not Draco's thumb—he maintained his smile, spitting on Draco's cobblestone drive. "You will regret that," Draco promised, and the bloodstained grin faded a little.

"Come with me," Draco said, striding around the side of the manor to the barn. Potter would need to learn his place, and fast. Draco couldn’t waste precious time simply teaching the… the _animal_ what the difference between the two of them was. He noticed Potter wasn’t following, and, seeing the Dursleys watching through the bay window, walked back and took Potter's ragged shirt collar in his hand, dragging him along.

Potter snarled and tried to jerk away, but Draco raised his hand in threat, and Potter shrank back, looking as though he hated himself even for that small concession. With grim triumph, Draco continued to haul the boy behind him. Inside the barn, he tossed the slight form into one of the empty stalls, bracketed by prize horses on either side.

"Stay here and don't move, or you'll be sorry." Draco let his gaze wander over to the branding station that Potter would be able to see just to his left. Potter followed his eyes, but instead of paling or quivering, he went stiff all over, and Draco could sense more than see the indignant rage ready to overtake him. "Be calm and you'll be rewarded."

Showing even more spirit, Potter's lips pulled back from his face in an ugly sneer. His teeth, straight and sharp, were smeared with the blood from Draco's slap. He was completely still, and though his eyes were on Draco, Draco had the feeling he was taking in his surroundings peripherally.

Shutting the door to the stall—nothing more than an insult as it was a half-door that Potter could easily jump if he dared—Draco left the bedraggled young man and returned to the Dursleys.

"Everything seems to be in order," he said upon re-entering the parlour. The young man at the sideboard looked up with guilty greed on his food-stained features, and the husband and wife rose as one, Mr. Dursley extending his hand, which Draco shook, ignoring the pain in his thumb from his new charge's strong teeth.

"You'll be able to… fix him, then?"

"I'm quite confident he will leave here a changed man. You have my word on that. I will be in somewhat regular contact with you regarding his improvement—"

"Oh, no need, no need," Mr. Dursley asserted. "Just write us when he's ready for us to pick him up."

Draco raised an eyebrow but decided not to press. He had Dursley fill out the necessary forms, including temporary guardianship of the young man, a waiver if anything went wrong, and multiple address forms and means of contacting the family should he need to, including a business address and a next of kin if the family was away at a time that Draco needed them.

With the formalities out of the way, Dursley looked visibly relieved. He heaved a great sigh, his moustache, quite out of fashion, trembling.

"Thank you very much, Mr. Malfoy," he said, jovial now that he'd rid himself of a great burden.

"It promises to be my pleasure," Draco responded, thinking of long limbs and green eyes.

He saw the family out, watching as they piled into their time-ravaged carriage and took off with slightly more speed than was entirely proper.

Instead of returning to Potter, as he would have liked to, Draco set about finishing the management of his estate in his study. Through the window, he could clearly see the barn, though not inside. Just knowing that Potter was waiting just inside , uncertain, angry… possibly even frightened… made Draco's trousers tighten in a way he hadn’t quite expected. After the dire failure with his last charge, he'd vowed to remain fully detached, and he planned to be. The poor young woman, woefully blinded by the emotions Draco'd invoked in her, had claimed he'd made promises that were quite unlikely for a man of his… tastes. If it hadn’t been for a very skilful tongue—this time used for speaking—Draco might have found himself with a gold band and offspring on the way by now.

There would be no such trouble if he decided to use Potter in that way—the waiver, a new addition to his business, stated (in legalese that had made Dursley's eyes cross) that Draco was permitted to do _whatever he deemed necessary_ in order to bring the young man to heel. And Potter didn’t seem like the type to fall for his jailor. Women were silly creatures, after all; Draco would be smart to take male charges only from that point on.

Groaning at the thought of all he could do to Potter—all he could have Potter do to him—Draco let the pages of his ledger fall shut and then stood. Yes, he'd earned a little distraction after the last time. He'd simply have to make sure to keep a safe—very safe—distance.

The sight that met him in the barn stall was one Draco would recall back for years to come. Of course, what _came_ of the sight was something he'd selectively forget.

Potter was kneeling on the ground, shirtless, his tight breeches straining because his knees were spread as wide as they could be. His arms were behind his back, and to complete the submissive posture, his head was bowed—he didn’t even look up when Draco entered.

He looked the way Draco's charges only looked after weeks of rigorous training.

"Very nice posture…" Draco circled Potter, noting that the man had the bottoms of his toes against the ground instead of the tops of his feet as they should be. Still, it was a minor nuance that Potter would learn quickly enough.

Standing before Potter again, Draco leaned down to tip his chin up—he noticed much too late how tense and tight Potter's muscles were, how stiff he was. How poised for movement.

Not many men could boast having surprised Draco, but Potter leaping to his feet like a cat and grabbing Draco's outstretched arm certainly put him on the list. With a roar like a feral animal, Potter yanked on Draco's arm, slamming him against the barn wall and pressing the heated, sweaty length of his body against Draco's back.

"Did you think I would just take it?" Potter demanded, twisting Draco's arm behind his back, wrenching it higher when Draco deigned not to answer. "Did you?"

"Of course not." Draco forced his voice to sound dismissive, though he was anything but nonchalant. In all his years as a trainer, he'd never been put in this position. "But if you were smart, you'd let me go before this becomes ugly."

Potter's laugh was without mirth. "If I let you go, I can only imagine the punishment you'd bestow upon me."

"No… you _can't_ imagine—that's how creative I plan on being." Draco slammed his heeled boot down on Potter's shoeless instep, and his assailant howled and released Draco, falling onto his arse and scrambling against the wall as he realised he'd lost the upper hand.

Without letting Potter regain himself, Draco tugged him to his feet, heedless of his cry of pain when his weight settled onto his battered foot. Draco reared his hand back to slap Potter, but Potter flinched violently and Draco decided he was cowed enough. He didn’t like inflicting excessive pain—there were more insidious ways of inciting defeat.

"I've broken wilder creatures than you, Potter," Draco said, standing him in the centre of the room, counting on Potter's possibly broken foot to keep him from running. From the overhead beam, Draco drew down a length of chain with shackles on the end of the slack. Potter looked up and paled, wide eyes searching Draco's face—if it was mercy he wanted, he'd not find it there.

"I'm sorry I tried—"

"Hush, now." Draco kept his voice low and calm, monotonous. "This doesn’t have to be so bad. You do as you're told, be a good lad for me, and this will all be over before you know it." Drawing Potter's hands, which were clenched into fists, in front of him, he slipped the cuffs over his wrists and secured them. Draco was surprised to hear a low rumbling come from the other man; he truly _was_ wild—he seemed to be growling.

"None of that," Draco admonished. He let Potter's wrists fall and ran his hands up the clenched muscle of the youth's arms. There was a layer of sweat that had cooled after his outburst, and goose bumps trailed after Draco's fingers. "This doesn't have to be uncomfortable," he murmured, leaning forward and speaking into Potter's ear.

As Draco had known he would, Potter jerked his head away, panting through bared teeth. With a careless shrug, Draco yanked the length of chain and levered Potter's hands high over his head. Potter gave a shout of surprise as his body stretched, pulling taut. Draco didn't force him to his tiptoes, but he could see the strain in Potter's calves as he struggled to keep his heels on the floor.

"You have only yourself to blame for getting us off to this unfortunate start." Draco stepped behind Potter, knowing it would unnerve him, not being able to see. He was right—Potter strained to look over his shoulder, but his lifted arms were in the way. He grabbed a thick belt from a hook by the stall door and put it aside. In front of Potter again, he said, "Lift your foot—the one you made me step on."

With a glare that Draco was beginning to suspect was his normal countenance, Potter lifted his left foot. It was purple with a massive mottled bruise, but as Draco rested it on his own thigh and prodded it with gentle fingers, he saw that it wasn't broken. Perfect.

He walked behind Potter once more. "Now lift the other." When Potter did, Draco grabbed him by the ankle and very quickly wrapped the belt around Potter's upper thigh and the foot, binding them together. It dug in enough that it wouldn’t slip down, but not so much that it would cause damage.

Potter wailed in agony as all his weight settled on his wounded foot, sucking in harsh breaths as he stumbled, foot skipping, trying to balance himself.

"You bastard!" Potter shouted, beads of sweat breaking out over his skin. Draco stood before him, hip jutted forward and arms crossed over his chest as he watched.

Potter raged and struggled and generally made a mess of himself. His shaggy black hair stuck to his forehead, the waist of his trousers was damp with sweat, his cheeks were ruddy and his muscles straining. He was quite a sight.

Quite an _affecting_ sight.

Unable to help himself, Draco closed the space between them and pushed the hair from Potter's face, pulling his hand back as Potter's teeth snapped at him. With a chuckle, not looking over his shoulder once, Draco left him there.

Once in his manor, Draco found his butler, Stevens, and asked him to assign one of the trustworthy servants to watch over Potter—it wouldn’t do for the man to suffocate on the first night. To the servant, Draco said to let Potter down around midnight, but to keep him bound at all times and not to speak to him at all. Then around six in the morning, the servant was instructed to lift him again. It would be easy with the pulleys Draco had set up, and Potter would be too weak to do more than beg for help—which would be ignored, of course.

The servant looked nervous, but he'd been assigned, in lesser ways, to tend to Draco's charges before. Draco didn’t suffer fools on his staff, so if the boy knew what was good for him, he'd do as bade and nothing less.

Draco returned to his study, but he found himself unable to focus on his ledgers. His mind kept drifting back to the man bound in his barn, so very like Draco's show horses. Draco would break him down and shape him into something new and beautiful—it would take time, effort, and perseverance, but Draco knew this had the potential to be his crowning glory. There was something about Potter that made Draco feel both afraid and alive.

How much would it take to break him? How beautiful would he be once recreated?

~~~~~

The servant on watch duty was startled when Draco approached the stall that held Potter. The servant hadn’t been sleeping, which really was a wonder given that he'd had absolutely nothing to do for hours except watch Potter first dangle and then sleep.

"You may go," Draco said, keeping his voice low so Potter wouldn’t wake. He couldn’t say what had brought him out to the barn. He hadn’t been able to sleep, thoughts of Potter plaguing him in a way that he hadn’t quite been able to explain. Was it mere sadism that made him slip from his decadently comfortable bed? Was it nothing more than the fact that he craved the look on Potter's face when he lifted him back into the air, his weight on his damaged foot as he struggled for balance?

The servant left without making a sound, but Potter stiffened under Draco's gaze. Draco watched with amusement as he forced himself to relax his muscles and even his breathing; he was pretending to be asleep. A very clever tactic—or it would have been if Draco hadn’t been watching.

For a few moments, Draco just watched Potter. He was a fine specimen of a man, sharp angles and tight muscles, very slender but with a body seemingly made for Draco's lusts alone. He wanted to see that dark head buried between his thighs, pressed against the bed sheets, and lolling on his shoulders in pleasure or pain.

Draco pulled up a grooming stool, smiling when Potter didn’t move when it slammed onto the ground beside his head.

"How is your foot?" he asked congenially, prodding at it with his boot.

Potter gave a sharp sound of pain and pulled away, but he couldn’t move far—the servant had been smart enough not to allow the bound man any slack. He didn’t answer.

"And your leg?" Draco eyed the leg that was bound in half, folded ankle to arse cheek. It didn’t look comfortable, but circulation hadn’t become an issue.

Potter glared and made a sucking sound, and Draco was on him in a flash, knowing the man had been about to spit at him. There was no feeling more satisfying than his hand around Potter's neck, franticly fluttering pulse beneath his fore and middle fingers. He pressed down, an ache growing in his belly at the sight of Potter's reddened face.

"When are you going to learn?" Draco chided, shaking his head in mock disappointment. "I can make this _so good_ for you."

"I'd rather die," Potter rasped before language became too much of a struggle.

Sighing, Draco released Potter, who didn’t even have the grace to cough. "Is your pride so overwhelming that it won't allow you a few weeks of beautiful submission before you're returned to normal life?" Draco found he was genuinely curious as to what made Potter rebel so vociferously against his training. Draco hadn’t even _done_ anything yet—most of his charges saved the fight for the punishments or the humiliations.

"You can make me hurt and suffer, but you can't take my pride."

Draco almost laughed at the brave but naïve words. "Not even if I trussed you up like a prize pony and showed you off to all my friends? If I made you bend over before them and asked them to test your… virility? Would your pride not falter and fail you then?"

Potter's eyes were cold, but there was fear in his face. "Whatever you make me do is through no fault of my own. My dignity won't waver when I'm forced."

It was a bold statement, one that Draco hadn’t expected. Most of his charges were more of the 'I'll do anything, just don't hurt me' variety. They were spoilt and pampered brats or insolent servants who hadn’t learnt their place. This Potter was a strange mix of the two with a dignity Draco hadn’t faced before.

It intrigued him.

Draco released the shackles around Potter's hand, and with a glare that signified agony if Potter tried anything, he also loosened the belt around his thigh and ankle, effectively freeing him.

Potter hissed out a breath as he extended his leg, and Draco felt for him. Trying to move after being bound in such a way for so long had to be excruciating, but nothing was a better deterrent than strong pain and a clear memory.

Draco decided it was time to begin the real training. He utilised a time-proven technique of rewards for good behaviour and punishments for bad. It had never failed him.

He'd never started with sexual favours before, but just being around Potter made him half hard and ready for a rut. There was something animalistic about him, something raw and untamed that Draco very much wanted to feel beneath his hands, shape under his tutelage.

Standing and looking down at Potter, he unlaced his breeches and lowered the heavy cloth beneath his hips, pulling out his swelling erection and smiling at Potter.

Instead of glaring with the fiery passion Draco was coming to expect from the other man, Potter's eyes were on his cock. Draco watched with interest as Potter took him in and seemed to find him very acceptable. A smirk stretched Draco's lips as Potter seemed to come back to himself, tearing his gaze away and looking at the floor. After a second, he, again, appeared to realise that wasn’t sending the message he wanted and looked up at Draco with loathing. Potter had a face that read like the afternoon edition of the people's newspaper, all spelled out in easy words for Draco to peruse at his leisure.

"You can hate it," Draco offered, feeling magnanimous. "I won't ask that you pretend to enjoy it."

"I promise you that I won't." But Potter swallowed hard and his eyes were drawn back to Draco's now solid cock, fire raging in his green eyes, a flush crawling up his bare chest.

After a moment of waiting, Potter did nothing and Draco grabbed him by his tousled hair and yanked his head forward, shoving Potter's face between his legs and against his sac. He held Potter there until the man finally seemed to get the hint, his tentative tongue flicking against Draco's full balls.

He groaned with approval as Potter's confidence increased and he began to tongue and mouth Draco's heavy sac. Hardly any time passed before Potter was practically worshipping him, and Draco basked in it, thrusting his hips forward in a rhythm that Potter adapted to with ease.

He'd done this before.

  
Draco couldn’t remember ever being so close to coming just by having his balls sucked. With a regretful moan, Draco released his hold on Potter's hair, and Potter worked his way up Draco's solid shaft, teasing more than pleasing. Draco put up with the nips and the kitten licks until he couldn’t bear it anymore. He was pleased that Potter was so dedicated, but _he_ was in charge. He should be directing the act, not Potter.

He pulled back and freed his cock, taking it in hand and rubbing the slick head over Potter's swollen lips. Potter's eyes flashed fire, but he opened his mouth obediently and took Draco in, sucking and running his tongue around like Draco'd had him practising for months.

"Very good," Draco praised, stilling himself from jerking forward and letting Potter hold the responsibility of pleasing him.

Once Potter's eyes closed, he became immersed in his actions, tight lips forming an unbroken seal around Draco's throbbing cock, and he _sucked_ and he _swallowed_ and when Draco moved into his throat, Potter barely hitched a breath.

He was perfect.

Potter's hands remained at his sides, but Draco liked that: it was half submission and half rebellion, and it both asked and answered questions about Potter. Draco kneaded his own balls in time to Potter's bobs on his cock, his other hand on the nape of Potter's neck, not directing, just reminding.

His orgasm came upon him more quickly than he'd experienced with anyone other than a seasoned whore, and Draco let it boil his blood, though he had the self-restraint to sound almost bored when he said, "Swallow everything I give you. Drop any and you'll clean it with your tongue."

In a horse's stall, the threat was heavy, and though Draco was certain he felt a retaliatory graze of teeth against his shaft, it only served to bring him off faster. He came with a shout, his cock trying to force its way back into the suffocating warmth of Potter's throat as he flooded his mouth. He let Potter swallow around him and then pulled out, a thin skein of come connecting his prick to Potter's slick red lips. Their eyes met, and Draco lifted an eyebrow in challenge.

Potter was anything but defeated as he leaned forward to clean Draco's cock free of all emission.

"That was excellent," Draco said. But he injected steel into his voice as he grabbed Potter's jaw and lifted his face up. "But if I feel your teeth again, you'll lose them all."

To his immense consternation, Potter laughed. "You might have taken my relatives for fools, but rest assured, I'm not of their ilk. I know you won't do anything to permanently damage me. I also know that if you fail to _tame_ me, your perverted little hobby will be nothing more than a faraway dream."

Draco leaned back in his seat. He was all nonchalance as he tucked himself into his breeches and laced them. Inside, his mind was racing. Who _was_ this young man, this child of fire and ice who knew so much and yet so little?

"I have ultimate power over you," he said—he was surprised at how much it sounded like he was trying to _convince_ Potter instead of inform him.

"No, you don't." Potter sat back and ran a hand over the bulge in the front of his trousers. Draco's eyes were drawn to the motion—just the motion, not what it implied, or so he told himself. Potter continued, "Only I lay claim to that."

Now Draco was getting angry. "If you don't do as I say—"

Again, Potter chuckled. His hand was now tracing idle circles over his bare abdomen. The fine trail of black hairs was teased as Draco tried time and again to look away. "I'll do as you say," he said. His eyes hardened. "And when I get out of here—whether you deem me _broken_ or simply turn your back long enough—I'll never see my relatives again." He yawned, and though Draco knew it was feigned, he still shook a little at the sheer audacity. This man's mouth still tasted of his come and yet here he was, doling out threats like croissants! "So, really, it'd be better for everyone if you let me go right now."

It was Draco's turn to laugh, only it sounded more sick than carefree. "My reputation—"

"You will not break me." Potter's voice was firm and filled with absolute surety. "Either way, your reputation will suffer. Better you claim I escaped than you return me even worse than I was. I assure you, there is nothing you can do to me that others haven’t done harder."

"You underestimate the range of my expertise."

"You overestimate the depth of your own cruelty."

Their eyes met and locked. There, for the briefest moment, Potter showed Draco something, bared something to him. Draco's mind couldn’t work quickly enough to decipher it, but it was pained and that pain was deeper than Draco could touch, with a fist or a fingertip.

For the first time since he'd started this little project, Draco began to doubt himself.

"We shall see," he said instead. Potter allowed himself to be bound once more, on his back this time.

Potter's smirk followed him out of the barn and all around the house.

Draco had to make him pay.

 

~~~~~

 

And for the next week, that was exactly what Draco did. He was so intent on breaking Potter that he even kept a schedule of what punishments and lessons would occur at what hour.

Draco had done a lot of research on methods used to break people. His knowledge, first and foremost, came from horses—the key rule there was to never relent, never give up. That was where the similarities ended, however. With Potter, he was relentless, but he was also brutal and uncaring.

The first day Draco had whipped Potter. He didn't _like_ whipping Potter. He hated when his horses were ridden by men too liberal with the crop. He hated the way the horses' eyes widened when he approached them after they were returned, and he hated the way they bristled, the way they whinnied and sidestepped when he treated the marks left behind. Yet he saw Potter act just the same, and it didn’t stop him.

Potter's eyes grew wide, the white showing around green irises, as Draco approached with the switch.

Potter's muscles tensed, his shoulders drawing up as he took a step back. The length of his bonds halted him—he was tied, arms stretched perpendicular to his body, to the sides of the barn.

Potter even made a little noise when Draco stepped behind him.

It was so like the horses and yet here Draco was, wielding the weapon that he chastised his employees for using.

There was no pleasure in whipping Potter. There was no thrill in hearing him cry out—on the twenty-seventh lash, Draco noted with surprise and a touch of awe. There was no satisfaction when Potter asked and then begged him to stop. There was no pride in the tears that stained Potter's cheeks and neck and chest, the salty water cutting a swath over Potter's dirty skin.

Potter was shaking and gasping when Draco threw the bloodied switch away. He felt sick to stomach. He'd had the idea that he'd use Potter after this beating—he'd let the blood that spilt from his wounds slicken his arsehole to ease the way for Draco before it began to stick and congeal. Now, though, looking over the ruin—temporary as it was as none of the cuts were deep enough to scar after enough time had passed—he felt no lust.

"You will break," he informed Potter, reminding him of why he was getting this beating. If Potter only acquiesced, if he would only admit that Draco held the power and Potter had nothing… then they could get back to Potter pleasuring Draco.

But Potter spat at the ground, the saliva tinged pink—Potter must have bitten his tongue or cheek—and hissed at Draco. Even though Draco knew there was triumph for him in Potter's weak rebellion—so pained that he could not even form words—he left without feeling like he'd made a point at all.

On the second day, Draco starved Potter and then didn't let him sleep when night fell. Every time Potter would nod off, Draco would toss water on him or slap him with a crop or even yell in his ear. He was a touch surprised at his own methods. This was more intimate than his usual punishment. For any other charge, he would have had a servant keeping Potter awake—after all, it meant that Draco himself had to stay up all night, too.

Potter never once asked for food, and he seemed to be struggling to keep himself awake, which Draco found odd. If it'd been him, he would have used any opportunity to grab even a second of sleep, but when Potter nodded off, he seemed angrier at himself than at Draco when Draco inevitably awoke him. And when Draco did fall asleep—the morning light was teasing the entrance of the barn and he only shut his eyes for a second—he jolted awake inexplicably to find Potter's unwavering eyes on him.

They both slept in the early afternoon when Draco left Potter in the barn without a word.

On the third day, Draco decided Potter was far too comfortable in his little stall. A thick black leather collar encircled Potter's neck. Draco smirked at the tight tendons beneath it, the clenched jaw above, knowing that, finally, he'd found a way to crack that implacable exterior. It seemed to work—at first. Potter fell to his knees easily enough, but when Draco attached a lead to the collar and tugged Potter after him, to follow on hand and foot, Potter stayed planted and wouldn’t be moved.

"Come, now, pet. Be a good dog or you'll go to the pound."

Potter's eyes were murderous. It was only when Draco dug through the hay that layered that bottom of Potter's stall and found the bloodied switch that Potter lowered his eyes and crawled forward, indicating that he would be led.

Draco wouldn’t admit how grateful he was that the threat had worked. Potter's wounds had closed and they were on their way to healing, but Draco wouldn’t have been able to bring himself to cause even more damage. It wasn’t like him to make a bluff—his threats were usually ones he only too eagerly followed through. There was something about Potter that both disturbed and disrupted him.

Alas, humiliation wasn’t the breakthrough Draco had been counting on. Yes, Potter seemed to hate every second, and he rebelled whenever he had a chance to do so, but he wasn’t cowed. He didn’t cry—he didn’t even blush. For the second half of the day, Potter was nude, but even that didn’t help. Draco dragged him all over the house in front of every manner of servant, cook, stable-hand, and employee. Potter met every single eye that fell on him.

Draco was almost at a loss. Three days was too soon to give up, he knew, but Potter seemed no closer to admitting Draco's power over him than he had when they'd first laid eyes on each other.

Intricate bondage kept Potter in a state of constant discomfort on the fourth day. Draco took great pride in his knot-tying abilities, and he made sure Potter experienced just about every single one he knew. There was no quick release to be had. Just the knowledge that freeing Potter would take over an hour was enough to get Draco's heart racing.

Unfortunately, Potter didn’t seem to share the same gleeful anxiety. He was stoical when tied. A position that Draco knew—from second-hand experience, of course, but from accounts that were to be trusted—was uncomfortable in the extreme had Potter breathing deeply and focusing on a point in the room in front of his eyes. On his belly, Potter's arms were behind his back, tightly enough that he was gripping his own elbows. His ankles were tied to his thighs, and ropes ran over his shoulders, down his body, and over his groin, tightly tucked into the crevice of his arse before continuing up his back to encircle his neck. Even a relaxation of his muscles caused a tightening of the rope that simultaneously strangled and molested him.

Potter didn’t even make a noise of discomfort, let alone capitulation.

As the day wore on, Draco added more and more ropes—some were thin and scratchy, others thick and without give. Potter was, to Draco's important rage, eventually bound so securely and at so many points that the ropes were doing the work for him—he could relax and count on the ropes to keep him stable and in position. It should have been the opposite: the ropes were supposed to keep him off balance, to make sure his muscles ached and strained.

Frustrated, Draco had to undo some of his best work just to make the ropes effective again.

"You know," he said, shortening the rope that tucked into Potter's arse and around his neck so that he could either give himself a wicked rope burn in his nether areas or struggle for air. "There's no reason we can't be friends."

It was a risky tactic, he knew—it sometimes worked with women, but it was rare. The person, usually female, had to actually want Draco to like her. He would use those feelings against her—any weakness was exploitable. Draco thought it might work because he suspected Potter quite enjoyed his company as a male. Maybe not Draco himself, no—Potter could probably do without him. But the fact was that Draco had a cock, and he had a feeling Potter liked it very much… that was something to take advantage of.

Potter didn’t answer. Draco took a seat in the chair he'd had placed in the barn stall. Having it right there, all the time, and yet Potter couldn’t sit in it thanks to being tied just short of reaching it… that was some interesting torture.

"I don't imagine you had a lot of friends growing up, hmm?" He took on a conversational tone, tilting his head to one side as if he were interested. And maybe he was, just a little. He'd never really given much thought to how someone of Potter's social caste might live, but he found himself wondering if Potter was as discontented with his lot as Draco'd always imagined the plebeians to be.

Despite the fact that the ropes must have been almost unbearably uncomfortable, Potter managed to take time away from his busy squirming to glare at Draco.

"Come, now. Let's not be strangers. You know… we could even have fun together."

To Draco's consternation, Potter laughed. "Oh, you mean I could even suck your cock again? Oh, please, could I, Master? Would you do me the great honour of soiling my unworthy mouth with your heavenly seed?"

Draco frowned. "You should be so lucky. And I'll have you know people have asked me that in earnest."

"Go find them, then. I'm not interested."

"Oh, but I think you are." Draco smiled a little, enjoying the way Potter's cheeks pinked and he looked away. "I think you're very interested. And maybe you won't beg, but you certainly won't say no."

"What good would saying no be? My _relatives_ signed away my rights without even consulting me—not that it's the first time."

"So they sign you over to perfect strangers often?" Draco asked, chuckling.

But Potter's response was dark. "If it makes them a guinea, I'm as good as a silver candlestick."

This didn’t quite fit with the mental summation Draco had made of Potter. Spoilt, recalcitrant, disobedient… but not abused. It wasn’t that Draco didn’t think Dursley capable—far from it. The man would probably be found sliding his wife's wedding ring from her dead hand as they lowered her into the ground when that day came. Yet, he was still surprised.

"Has your… guardian hired other men in my profession to… tame you?"

Potter chuckled. He took a moment to respond, wriggling in his bonds, trying to find comfort that just wouldn’t be possible. "If you could call them men."

"What would you call them?" Draco found himself drawn into the story, into the wry, matter-of-fact way Potter spoke of his own life, about how he, himself, was obviously just another of many who'd tried to form Potter into something he wasn’t meant to be.

"It depends." Potter gave up his movements and his head sagged into the hay. Draco leaned forward, elbows on his knees, to better hear him. "The ones who beat me were bastards. The ones who starved me were cowards. The ones who fucked me were animals. You're the only one with the privilege to have been all three."

Draco's mouth was dry. "I didn't fuck you," he protested. The look on Potter's face made him realise it was semantics. He'd fucked Potter's mouth; it was the same thing—just a different hole.

Collecting himself, Draco shook off the strange feelings that were sliding over his skin like directionless snakes. "Why not just—"

"Give up?" Potter offered, speaking half into the hay. "That's not something I can do. Not even to escape all this."

"Run away, then?"

Potter sighed. "Because there are men just as good at finding as others are at beating."

Draco took that to mean Potter'd run away before. "So what do your relatives have you do that creates a need for such drastic measures?"

Like Potter had been a flame and the words an exhalation, he went limp and unresponsive. He didn’t respond to Draco's repeated attempts at getting his attention.

Knowing the tightness of the ropes could cause heart problems if left too long, Draco quickly untied Potter, stretching his limbs and turning him onto his back. He was kneeling beside the supine form when Potter opened his eyes, pinning him and making him realise he was weaponless and without support—and Potter had already proven himself violent and intractable.

Draco wasn’t afraid, though. Potter's eyes might have held the same colour as they always had, but there was no fight there.

"Sometimes it doesn’t have to be horrible to be unbearable," Potter said, sounding old and tired.

"What do you mean?" Draco _had_ to know. His entire system of belief, his raison d'être was based on the fact that his charges _deserved_ the treatment he gave them. For Potter to come in, previously beaten and abused and now saying the Dursleys were the abusers, it made Draco uncertain.

And if there was one thing Draco _hated,_ it was being unsure—especially about himself.

Potter only shook his head in response.

Draco sat back in the chair, giving Potter room, though he did nothing but lie there. What did it mean? Potter had been through hell at the hands of men Dursley had hired—including Draco. So what could be so bad in his home that he couldn’t just… make do? At least until he was free to live his own life. Would he ever _be_ free? He'd said Dursley brought him back after running away—did the man plan on keeping Potter there forever, and if he did, to what end?

Draco had had enough. He was tired, he was sore, he was hungry, and that was all from inflicting those same ills on another person, a person who had to be feeling all those things a thousand-fold.

"Can you walk?" he asked, standing and holding out a hand.

They seemed to be in a stalemate, where Potter stared at Draco in incredulous disbelief, and Draco stared back with dispassion, as if he hadn’t had his very foundations shaken by the nonchalant words of a man who, under any other circumstances, wasn’t worth the buckle on Draco's boot.

"Come, I'm hungry and I've no wish to wait around for you to make up your mind."

"If this is a prelude to you leading me around by a leash again, you can forget it. I'd rather starve."

"Yes, I've no doubt." Draco was well acquainted with Potter's pride, even if it showed itself in odd ways. "Just come."

In the dining room, Draco had one of the servants let the cook know they were ready to eat. He sat himself at the head of the table, taking a moment to enjoy how uncomfortable Potter seemed. He looked like a boy who'd been stung by a wasp eight times and now the wasp was entreating him to trust it.

After long moments of hesitation, which Draco did nothing to assuage, Potter sat himself on the floor next to Draco. It was interesting—the gesture spoke of submission the way a shark might speak of breathing air: it knew about it, but it had no idea what it really meant.

Draco didn’t bother trying to correct his stance or berate him for the near-tangible waves of defiance that poured off him. He knew, now, that none of his castigations would actually yield results. Potter just wouldn’t be tamed.

What was it about that knowledge that made Draco's blood pound?

They didn’t have to wait long for food. The servant was clever enough to serve Potter's on the floor in front of him after Draco's was placed on the table. Potter, the insolent whelp, didn’t wait for Draco’s permission to eat. Instead, he dug in barehanded and ate like a barbarian, lending credence to Draco's many theories about the general lack of couth in any class but his own.

Draco ate tidily, spearing the fish with decisive but neat movements, eating in bites small enough to encourage good digestion. He tried not to cringe as he heard Potter crunch through the finicky bones of the salmon.

"They all think," Potter said, only having just swallowed, "that they're the first to do what they're doing to me."

Draco stiffened, forcing himself not to look down. Potter had never _offered_ information before, and whenever he'd spoken it was only in response to Draco's demands.

"What do you mean?" Finished, Draco threw the linen napkin beside his plate and gestured for the servant to clear the dishes.

Potter snapped his teeth at the poor man, who yanked his hand back with a gasp and looked to Draco for instruction. Potter continued to eat as if nothing had transpired.

Rolling his eyes, Draco dismissed the servant. Let the childish brute have his fun and his fish, too.

"Every time a fist met my face, the bastard would laugh like I hadn’t been expecting it, like he was waiting for me to break down and cry. Every time they took down my trousers, they goaded me like I'd give in at the mere thought of being taken so."

In the barn, Potter's talk hadn’t been out of place. In his own house, though, Draco had reservations about allowing such free speak, such vulgarisms. He didn’t want the servants to talk, for rumours to circulate about the type of men Draco _entertained,_ even if it was a job.

But for some strange reason that he didn’t relish examining when he had a moment, Draco didn’t chastise Potter for his words. He just listened. Realisation was dawning inside Draco, and it was an ugly thing. Potter was telling him that nothing Draco could do would make him change. He was telling him that he'd been a victim of countless attempts to break him and _no one_ had managed.

Draco was a confident man. He had reason to be. He'd inherited his family fortune and was well on his way to doubling it after only a few short years. He'd sent men and women, people who he might have pegged as stronger than Potter, home as docile, obedient creatures. He had only to look at a potential lover in a certain way to bring them over to him and, consequently, into his bed.

So that he felt out of his league was both shaming and strangely relieving.

He'd never met a man he couldn’t best. He'd never met a man he couldn’t bed—if he wanted it badly enough. There had been no one he hadn’t felt superior to, not since his father had died.

What was it about Potter? At first glance, there was nothing interesting or new about him. He was dirty, dishevelled, without manners, without guile or affectation, and utterly below Draco in all ways. And yet, upon closer inspection, there seemed so much more to him. He was _wild._

There had never been a man so free with so many chains holding him.

"It appears we are at something of an impasse," Draco said, sitting back in his chair and turning to face Potter.

Despite the noise he'd made as he'd eaten, Potter's face wasn’t messy as Draco expected. Even his hands were clean—Draco's eyes narrowed as he saw Potter had pilfered one of the napkins right off the table without Draco ever noticing. He made a note not to let Potter alone in a room with valuables.

"I'd say so." Potter smirked up at him, his lower position not making him seem any less of a presence.

"What do you propose, then?" Draco was willing to entertain ideas. He wasn’t at the point where he'd consider sending Potter back with a refund—not that he offered such things—but maybe he could convince Potter to _pretend_ to be cured of his wildness. He might even give Potter a percentage of the earnings.

"I'm not the master businessman. I'm just a simple _stable_ boy."

Whether that was actually Potter's profession or he was alluding to the fact that Draco'd kept him in the barn, he wasn’t sure. In any event, Potter was right. This was Draco's mess. If he wasn’t good enough to break Potter, maybe it was time to admit…

No. He would admit nothing.

"Come with me."

That night, Draco put Potter in the dungeon. He very rarely went down there, and when he had, he'd been drunk and macabre. He was neither of those things now, and seeing it in that light made Draco hesitate about putting anyone, even Potter, down there. He'd never had to resort to such tactics before. It made him wonder exactly what he was becoming.

Potter didn’t seem perturbed by his surroundings at all. In fact, he gave Draco a sardonic grin when he'd reached the far wall, one that decorated with shackles and chains. He even went so far as to insert his wrists into a pair of rusty manacles and then gave Draco a wink.

"Idiot," Draco snapped, grabbing him by the collar that Potter still wore from his day of playing puppy. He yanked Potter into one of the cells and shut the door with an ominous clang. There was no bedding and no toilet.

Potter took a cursory look around and his good humour faded. Draco was almost sorry to see it go. Potter stood in the centre of the room, his back ramrod straight. He didn’t put his hands on the bars and he didn’t sit in one of the corners. He merely stared Draco down, almost like he was disappointed.

When Draco couldn’t stand it anymore, he left the lantern—it had a few hours of oil and no more—and ascended the stairs all the way up to his bedroom. He knew, somehow, that Potter stood glaring at the space Draco had taken up before he'd left long after Draco himself had succumbed to sleep.

~~~~~

On the second day, Potter did not speak a word. Draco had one of his servants bring him food three times that day, and each time the servant came back with the report that Potter refused to eat, and that he hadn’t relieved himself.

Draco knew that could only go on so long before the man damaged himself. Somehow, though, Potter had outplayed him. It was around dinnertime—Potter hadn’t used a washroom in an entire day—that Draco gave in. It was an odd feeling, giving in first. He certainly hadn’t expected he'd be the one to do so.

He had the servant bring Potter a bedpan and more food.

Draco tucked himself into bed that night, still ruminating over how to destroy Potter's spirits. He knew that he'd taken a step back when he'd given Potter the bedpan. Having him stew in his own filth would surely have brought Potter closer to breaking.

It was almost as if Draco didn’t _want_ Potter to break.

Absurd.

It was cold in the manor that night. Spring brought with it a permeating dampness. Draco found his servant—poor, harassed thing—and told him to bring Potter some blankets and a pillow.

Bastard, coward, animal. But not monster. Not that night.

The third day, the servant returned with news that Potter had, indeed, eaten and used the bedpan. He also mentioned that there was a rather steady drip from a crack along the stone ceiling of the cell, which was small enough that no matter where Potter tried to lay, the water tortured him.

Draco knew that he could just… do nothing. Chinese water torture, while spoken of with derision by himself and his more enlightened friends, was a proven method of breaking prisoners.

So _why_ Draco told the servant to move Potter to a larger cell, one with a pallet for his blankets—new, dry ones—he couldn’t have answered if he'd wanted to.

There was nothing erotic about the idea of Potter in his cell, so _why_ Draco fucked his fist while thinking on it, Draco couldn’t have said.

On the fourth day, Draco decided the servant was working hard enough and the stairs were really too far to travel up and down several times a day. So he had Potter moved to the main floor, quite near Draco's own bedroom. He scowled at the smirk Potter gave him upon seeing his new abode, and to punish Potter for his insolence, he chained him to the floor instead of letting him sleep on the bed.

Halfway through the night, however, Draco found himself in Potter's room, unlocking the chains and ordering Potter onto the bed. He demanded that Potter suck his cock, and to his unending surprise, Potter did without complaint.

He sucked Draco with the fury and fire of one who wanted to harm instead of relieve, but there was nothing hurtful in the way his mouth mastered Draco's cock.

He even swallowed.

It wasn’t until Draco was in his own room again—stroking his absurdly erect cock, even though he'd just spilt into a near-professional mouth—that he realised he'd used the word _master_ to refer to what _Potter_ had done to _him_!

What in God's good name had happened? Draco had gone from unassailable to completely beaten in a matter of no more than ten days!

As he came for the second time in under an hour, he vowed that tomorrow, things would change. For the better, this time.

~~~~~

On the fifth day, Draco woke Potter up.

"You think you're unbreakable, do you? Well, maybe the mistake was the other men gave up." Draco yanked the sheets from the bed, his ire somewhat soothed by the fact that Potter looked mildly afraid. "I assure you, I will not give up. And whatever… _charm_ you seem have to worked will work no longer."

There was no collar. Draco wrapped the chain around Potter's neck a few times before gripping both ends and hauling Potter out of the bed. Unable to steady himself, Potter slammed hard on the floor and grunted, the breath obviously knocked from him.

Instead of waiting for Potter to regain himself, Draco began tugging on the chain, forcing Potter to either get to his feet or be dragged and choked.

Potter managed to get his legs under him. His eyes bulged and his hands tore at the chain, but Draco didn’t relent. Three times on the way back to the dungeon Potter fell—once on that stairs, and Draco cringed as he heard it but forced himself not to look back. There was no sound of snapping bones, only more grunting and groaning.

Potter scrabbled after him, sometimes pulling back on the chains, trying to wrench them from Draco's grip, but mostly just gasping and following as best he could.

With a grim smile, he used the momentum of the chain to toss Potter into the smallest cell. Potter hit the jagged rock wall with a shout and fell to his knees. Draco threw the chain at him, and Potter struggled to free himself. The white of his right eye was red, a blood vessel having burst from the strangulation. Once freed from the chain, Potter gulped in breath like he had his fish dinner—greedily and without couth.

"I've had enough of playing games," Draco said, stepping into the cell.

Potter finally reacted as he was supposed to. He crawled back, crab-like, and pressed his back to the wall, eyes wide and eerie as he looked up at Draco.

"On your hands and knees." He didn’t wait for the incredulous look to fade from Potter's face. Instead, he knelt down, uncaring that the stone floor abused his knees. He opened his trouser placket with fluid grace, knowing his slow movements were making Potter even more fearful.

Yes. This was what he'd wanted all along. Potter cowering and trembling before him, finally about to admit that _Draco_ was the master, Draco was in charge.

It was all he'd ever wanted.

"On your _hands and knees_ ," he said again, growling this time. "Arse in front of me."

Potter was still for another moment, searching Draco's face like it was all a joke, like they were friends and Draco would burst out laughing and talking about _the look on your face!_

No one was laughing.

After much too long, Potter arranged himself as ordered, positioned like a dog with his arse right in front of Draco's hips. Draco slapped Potter's behind a few times—until his hand began to sting and he grew frustrated with Potter's lack of response—and then tore down Potter's trousers, not checking to see if his cock was uncomfortably tangled in them as they encircled Potter's thighs and made it impossible for him to move.

Draco released his cock, stroking himself to full hardness to the sound of Potter's angry, ragged breathing.

The pinned position of Potter's legs meant that Draco could only see a hint of where he'd be making his home in short order. Potter's hole was clenched tightly enough that he knew this would hurt them both. He let his cock nestle into Potter's crack and leaned forward, cupping his hand in front of Potter's face.

"Spit. It's all you'll get."

For a long moment, nothing happened. Draco almost thought Potter was refusing, was mistaking masochism for pride. But then a huge glob of spit, one Potter had to have worked up during the silence, hit Draco's hand. It was enough to slick his cock and spare a little for his fingers, of which he thrust two into Potter's snug entrance.

Ah, a sound. A choking, guttural cry. Draco wanted it to be like music, but it was more like the sound of something dying, and Draco hated it.

He worked his fingers in and out until the spit wore thin—it gave him an idea of how long he'd be able to last before the friction of his cock would threaten to damage him.

Draco lined himself up to Potter's entrance and rocked his hips forward. There was no sense in hurting himself just to prove that he could hurt Potter. The crown sank in after a few thrusts—Potter was silent throughout—and from there it became easier. Potter was _tight_ … there was nothing like it. Draco couldn’t even remember his long-time friend Blaise being so tight their first time, and that had been… ten years ago now. It was incredible.

His thrusts were mindless, his attention focused inward, on his own pleasure and nothing else.

Potter's body was hot but stiff—too stiff. Despite his actions, Draco did prefer his partners willing. Actually, he couldn’t remember ever taking anyone without their consent… without them begging for it, really. Draco frowned and angled his cock a little, bending forward so it would graze Potter's prostate. He could feel the nodule on the underside of his cock, but other than a tightening of his fists, Potter didn’t react.

This was a failure.

And not just because he was bringing Potter absolutely no pleasure, but because he'd gained _nothing_ from doing this. Potter was winning—hell, he'd won long before Draco'd even known they were playing. Draco wasn’t going to break him, not with ropes and chains, not with humiliation, and not with his cock. For the first time, it hit Draco—he was doing _nothing_ that hadn’t already been done to this man, and he could think of _nothing_ that hadn’t been thought of.

His hips slowed but he wasn’t quite able to stop himself. It felt too good, and what difference did it make, anyway? Potter would hate him, and rightfully. But… maybe Draco could make him hate him just a little less.

"Tell me to stop." His thrusts had already ceased; he hoped Potter knew he meant more than just the fuck. "Tell me to stop and I will. I'll let you go." There was just a _hint_ of hope—born from the way Potter sometimes looked at him, at his cock… like he needed it.

Potter fell forward on his elbows, his head resting on the ground. Draco groaned at the change in angle and unconsciously worked his hips for a moment before he stopped himself.

"I'll let you go," he repeated.

"Let me go, then," Potter said, his voice rasping. Draco began to pull away, but Potter added, "Let me go, but don't stop."

Draco almost asked if Potter was sure, but then decided he was sure enough. With a hand on Potter's chest, he pulled him up so they were both kneeling. Potter sank down on Draco's cock, his arse resting on Draco's thighs. Draco couldn’t resist biting at Potter's neck—it was bruised and red from the chain Draco's used to get him there, but he didn’t care and Potter almost seemed to enjoy the treatment.

That theory was reinforced when Draco's hand slid down Potter's chest to grab his cock. Instead of finding him limp and unresponsive, Draco was startled to close his hand around a stiff and throbbing prick.

He could use this, he knew. It meant he hadn’t lost by as wide a margin as he'd thought. Hell, he could humiliate Potter at that very moment, hold his reaction against him and it would _work_ this time. Draco knew it would like he knew his cock was in a place it never wanted to leave.

Yet he didn’t do anything but slowly wank Potter as his own hips began to surge forward and upward. He wasn’t moving in or out very far, only an inch or two, but it was enough for both of them.

Draco had admitted defeat—he would keep his word and let Potter go—and it didn’t sting as much as he'd expected. It hurt much less than his previous failure with the young woman.

While Draco was having his revelation, his balls drew up in preparation. He barely had time to speed his thrusts to slide against Potter's sweet spot and move his hand faster, slicked with precome, to bring Potter off before he spilled himself with a grunt drowned by Potter's own shout of completion. Draco's hand was covered in slippery warmth, and he had absolutely no desire to wipe it off.

They both slumped forward—Potter first, Draco's still-hard cock slipping from him, and then Draco, falling on top of him and uncaring about anything other than the fact that it was all over.

It felt like it had been a long time coming.

"I'm not… evil," Draco said. For some reason, Potter should know that. He hadn’t always been so callous, so uncaring of the plights of others. He wasn’t sure when he had become that way, but he was starting to think—to fear, really—that he was changing back.

Potter shrugged.

"Really, I just—"

"You don't have to explain yourself. You did your job. Are you going to let me go or not?"

For a moment, Draco almost took his words back. It'd be _so_ easy to stand and shut the cell door, locking Potter within. He could break him now. The knowledge was thick in the air between them. They both knew it. He would use Potter's pleasure against him and the game would be over.

But Draco didn’t want to let Potter go and not because he wanted to earn the money Dursley had given him. No, he didn't give a fig about the money. It was never about that.

He didn’t want Potter to go. But he knew Potter would never want to stay. Draco couldn’t force him. He _could,_ but he couldn’t. It was strange, not doing what he wanted and what he _could_ do. He didn’t much understand it.

"I'm going to let you go."

~~~~~

Draco convinced Potter—though when it had come to convincing instead of ordering was still a little unclear in his mind—to stay one more day. Just to get himself together, to make a plan.

Potter had laughed a little at the suggestion, making Draco think Potter didn’t often think things through. It would certainly explain his penchant for biting as a first reaction.

Still, Draco told Potter to leave town, go as far as he could on foot before stealing a horse, and then ride as far as the horse would take him before selling it and settling in to find work. That would put enough distance between him and Dursley, and Draco didn’t think the man would extend _too_ much trouble to find his wayward nephew, not after the incentive Draco planned on offering.

"You're a strange sort of person, aren’t you?" Potter asked as he stood by the front doors of the manor. He was leaning against the wall, a parcel of his very meagre possessions in hand.

"What do you mean?" Thinking about it, Draco could see why Potter would think him odd—contrary, at the very least. After all, he'd beaten Potter one day and taken him to bed the next and now he was letting him go when it went directly against his best interests.

"You're not a bad person… but you're not very good."

Draco chuckled. "I was raised to be one way; maybe you can appreciate the journey it will take to get to the other."

Potter cocked his head, smirking. "I don't think you'll be changing any time soon. But you shouldn’t."

Now it was Draco's turn to eye Potter with surprise. "And why not?"

Dropping his pack, Potter stepped closer. Draco could smell the sweet scent of his own bath oils. Another liberty Potter had been granted.

"Because one day," Potter began in a voice like he was telling a fairytale to a young child. "You'll find a person who likes you the way you are. Maybe even a person who… likes the things you do. Just not the way you do them."

"I don't know what you—"

Potter smiled and cut him off. "You do know. Or you will. Anyway, I'd better be going."

Draco swallowed. "Potter, I'm so—"

"No, you're not. Don't lie to yourself or to me. Not now. Not when I can see you clearly for the first time."

Somehow shamed, Draco dropped his head. There was anger beneath the shame, though; how dare a _peasant_ make him feel so lowly? What was it about Potter that had caused everything to change?

He was glaring when he lifted his head again, but the heat was lacking. Potter laughed a little and shook his head before stepping in and pressing a kiss against Draco's lips. He was too shocked to react at first, but just as Potter began to pull away, Draco grabbed him by the nape of the neck and yanked him forward. The kiss was hard and hot and showed them both that Draco hadn't changed _that_ much. The kiss was about possession, ownership, but then… Draco just let it go. Even though he wanted it, even though he might even need it…

He let it go.

~~~~~

On the first day after Potter left, Draco gave him time. Knowing his former charge's fortitude, he had no doubt that Potter would walk for at least a day before stealing a horse to take him even farther.

On that first day, Draco sat in the barn.

On the second day, Draco knew Potter would have a horse and ride it like the devil was at his heels—Potter didn’t seem like the type to pace himself or an animal.

On the third day, Draco purchased another horse. Arabian. Black. Strong and defiant and completely wild. He would never race, would never show. Still, there was something… The new horse filled the unoccupied space in the barn. Draco was officially out of the human-training business.

The fourth day came and went, and Draco began to ponder what Potter had said. He wasn’t used to those in lower classes having wisdom, but Potter might have been on to something. Could Draco's desires be met _without_ force, without having charges handed to him? Could that sort of thing be… mutual?

Was Potter suggesting that he'd actually enjoyed the things Draco had done to him? It was too unbelievable to consider, but then… there was that book by that Marquis, who'd spoken of such things.

Not that it mattered. Even if Potter _had_ enjoyed what Draco had done, he was gone forever. He'd be a fool to return, even if his uncle did agree not to search for him.

On the fifth day, Draco paid a visit to Dursley. Upon opening the front door of their rather ramshackle abode, Draco could tell the house was suffering greatly from the loss of Potter. The rank stench of rotted food and unwashed bodies and a blocked chimney assaulted Draco like a physical force. He knew Potter had been their main servant—nay, slave. Without him, there was obvious ruin.

It was this weakness, the lack of wealth and affluence, which Draco played on when he made his offer. Potter hadn't known about Draco's plan, but now he wouldn’t have to fear Dursley sending men after him. Draco paid three times what a _good_ slave was worth; it was about ten times what Potter was worth. Dursley's eyes went wide with avarice, his chins jiggling as he took the money and signed the forms Draco passed in front of him. It took about fifteen minutes, beginning to end, for Draco to own Harry Potter—in absentia, but no one knew that but him.

Owning Potter gave him only a small thrill. The legality of the ownership was hazy at best, but it was more than enough to ensure that Potter was in no danger of being tracked and captured like an animal.

Except, of course, if Draco decided to do the tracking.

On the sixth day, Draco truly considered it. The more time he'd spent ruminating on Potter's final words to him, the more convinced he became that Potter had, indeed, meant that he hadn't hated the punishments Draco had put him through, just _the way he'd done it_ , which Draco took to mean violently and without consent. Instead of thinking of ways to find a new, willing partner, Draco's thoughts centred on Potter and wouldn’t let him go.

~~~~~

On the one hundred-and-eighty-seventh day, there was a knock on the door.

Draco groaned and stood, the motion wearied and almost agonising. Without his little hobby to keep his mind focused and his body sated, every day was a chore. He made his way to the door and opened it, stifling a sigh at the exhaustive actions.

He couldn’t have sighed if he'd wanted. His breath had been stolen.

"You're wet," he said, staring at the sopping mess on his doorstep. He blinked. It was still there.

"It's raining," Potter said with a small, quirked smile.

Then Draco realised something else. "You're wearing the collar…" Draco's fingers itched to touch it. That collar under his hands, under his lips…

"You shouldn’t have put it on me if you didn’t mean it."

Potter's words didn’t make a lot of sense to Draco, but then, nothing had. Not for at least one hundred and eighty seven days.

"Do you want to come in?"

"As long as I won't be sent out to the barn."

Draco laughed a little and moved away. Potter brushed past him. "The barn's full," Draco said, taking Potter's drenched travelling cloak.

Potter's face fell. "Oh."

"By a horse," Draco added quickly. "A wild one. Won't even let me touch him, let alone ride him."

"You're probably not asking the right way." Potter's smile was cryptic, and Draco found he didn’t get angry at the thought that Potter might know something he didn’t.

"How should I ask?"

Potter stepped closer, one hand on his weathered leather collar, the other reaching for Draco. "I'll teach you. But you have to want to learn."

 

 

 _The End._


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